


- de profundis - up from the depths -

by otter



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney has been chasing the idea of Sam Carter all day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	- de profundis - up from the depths -

When the _Daedalus_ wheels into Atlantis orbit like a gray-winged seabird, keeping a distant pace with the city as if following a particularly elusive fish, Rodney McKay is halfway across the galaxy with both hands wrapped tight around John Sheppard's thigh.

Sheppard is saying, "It needs a tourniquet," in between manfully restrained grunts of pain, and Rodney is saying, "Yes, because you won't actually be needing this leg or anything. Why don't you just reflect on your own stoicism and let me handle the big emergency. And for God's sake stop _touching it_." Rodney doesn't have a hand free to bat Sheppard's away, but he does grip a little harder at the wound. It staunches the blood flow, and it also makes Sheppard groan, flop limply back against the ground, and stop trying to interfere with Rodney's excellent handling of the situation.

"Tourniquet," Sheppard says weakly.

"It's not the artery, you idiot," Rodney says. "And while you might enjoy having a peg leg and a limp, I'm afraid the whole pirate thing isn't actually going to get you as far as you think with the ladies." Into his headset, he says, "Yes, that's right, no rush at all. You both take your sweet time. Finish your coffee. We'll just be waiting here, whenever you're ready to join us. Assuming we don't die of old age first."

Sheppard's arms are spread wide, like he's planning to make snow angels, in spite of the balmy jungle weather. He flexes his fingertips -- they've got blood all over them, drying dark red -- and says, "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum," in such an unconvincing way that Rodney doesn't even dignify it with a response.

"I blame you for this whole situation," Rodney says. "I was supposed to be back on Atlantis by now, meeting the new arrivals from the _Daedalus_."

Sheppard's staring up at the sky, blinking slow and looking kind of stoned, which Rodney figures isn't a very good sign. "You know, that was a pretty good ride, that pirate thing. But I never liked Disneyland very much," Sheppard says. "I used to visit my aunt in San Diego every summer and she'd take me and my cousin Artie to Disneyland every time. I thought the rides were all too artificial."

"Right," Rodney agrees. "Artificial. You seriously have a cousin named Artie?" He's never been to Disneyland, but he feels it's important to humor his teammates when they're possibly poisoned and probably dying and oh, thank God, that sound behind him like big cats moving stealthily and suavely through the brush must be Teyla and Ronon.

While they're putting a pressure bandage around Sheppard's thigh, Sheppard's saying, "Anyway I always liked state fairs better; the cotton candy, the slightly suspicious carnies, the rigged games, the whole nine yards."

Rodney says, "Uh huh," from a few feet away, where he's attempting to pick up the corpse of the -- Snake? Bird? Snake-bird-thing? -- without actually touching it. Apparently its fangs are envenomed with some substance that causes the victim to over share, and Rodney doesn't want to get any on him. He eventually ends up wrapping the thing's head in Sheppard's discarded jacket -- Rodney doesn't want to ruin his own and Sheppard's hardly in any state to object -- and then draping the trailing end of the body over his other arm, for lack of any better ideas. He carefully arranges it belly-up, so all the sharp little prongs that line its underside won't dig into his skin, but he wishes he'd put his own jacket back on first; even the thing's feathers are not actually as soft as they look, and they feel oil-slick and absolutely disgusting against the soft inside of his elbow.

When they're carrying Sheppard to the Gate -- Ronon with his arms hooked under Sheppard's shoulders and Teyla gripping at the knees, the both of them moving along at an awkward jog while Rodney keeps pace alongside, mostly staying out of their way -- Sheppard's saying, "And this big display thing for the manatees. Well, there's a bunch of other fish and things too, but it's mostly these manatees just kind of floating along. I could watch them for _hours_."

Rodney says, "Wow, really? That's so very not interesting," and he isn't sure whether he stopped paying attention in the middle of that long enough to miss the segue, or whether there wasn't one at all. The trauma and poisoning might've stripped Sheppard of what little segue-producing capability he had to begin with.

Ronon grunts, "Almost there," like they can't all see the arc of the Stargate, plainly visible since the backwash from Atlantis' first dial-in vaporized all the plant life in front of it.

Teyla says, "Doctor McKay," and Rodney says, "Yes, yes," and he's already darting ahead.

This planet has no DHD, and the plant life is too thick to Gate through a puddlejumper, but it doesn't matter because Rodney is brilliant; he's figured out how the jumpers send wireless signals to the Stargates, and he's married that with a streamlined, bastardized version of the SGC's computer dialing protocols. His coding is elegant, his interface is a graphical reproduction of the standard Ancient DHD configuration, and unlike the SGC's system, he doesn't need several mainframe computers to store all of the data; a copy of the program fits onto his datapad with plenty of room to spare. He punches in Atlantis' address with his stylus, trying not to get any of the blood from his fingers onto the electronics, and he's only mildly surprised when it actually works, first time out in a real field situation, without a single glitch.

He's just finished sending his iris deactivation code when Teyla and Ronon sweep by with their cargo (which is only slightly precious, and mostly only to Elizabeth, who seems to be harboring an unreasonably strong affection for Sheppard; but then she's also the sort of person who traps bugs inside coffee mugs so they can be safely re-released into the wild). When they go by, Sheppard says, "And Shamu is kind of overrated. I mean, he's not even the original Shamu anymore." Sheppard sounds kind of aggrieved, which is ridiculous because he's referring to a fish by name as if it's his best friend in the world.

"That's nice," Rodney says. "You can shut up now." He follows them through the Gate, from the heated humid jungle and into the temperature-regulated ocean-front cool of Atlantis, with the tail end of the whatever-it-is swinging against his thigh with every step.

Sheppard is trying to tell Elizabeth something crucial and heart-felt about SeaWorld, and the medics are just sprinting in as if they were all recruited straight off the high school track team, and Rodney has completely missed the arrivals from the _Daedalus_.

+++

The doors in the residential sections of Atlantis are, it turns out, close cousins of semaphores. His first days in Atlantis, Rodney had circled the corridors outside his quarters twice while trying to find the right door. He'd been half-convinced that he'd walked to the wrong level, since he'd come off a 36-hour shift all zombie-eyed and barely conscious, but on the third pass he'd realized that his door was exactly where he'd left it; it had just changed its colors, like leaves turning in autumn.

So even though the daily logs list this room as OCCUPIED, Rodney knows that nobody's home; the doors are almost opaque, the colors muted rust-reds and dusky oranges, and there are no lights on inside. He knocks anyway, because maybe Colonel Carter has already figured out how to induce to doors to lie for her, to show the wrong colors like pirates running up a phony flag. He wonders if the city has a specific color-code designated for _Sorry, I'm Busy Washing My Hair_.

Nothing moves inside, though, and the rust-reds darken themselves a little further.

Rodney says, "Fine, I get the message," to the door, and turns and walks away.

He hasn't eaten dinner yet, and there's already an ache behind his eyes, drifting up to his temples like blood in water, but when he gets to the transporter he finds himself selecting a destination nowhere near the mess hall. He rematerializes -- he never gets tired of that -- just outside the infirmary.

Sheppard's still sleeping; he's in the furthest bed along the wall, laid out on his back. He isn't snoring and somehow he manages to look manly and stoic even when unconscious, which is just deeply unfair.

"Ah," Carson says, while Rodney's standing there squinting to make sure that Sheppard's actually breathing. "Rodney. Come to check on Colonel Sheppard, have you?"

Rodney blinks, turns, and says, "Yes, since you so kindly kicked me out the last time." He tilts his chin up to let Carson know exactly what he thinks of that shoddy treatment. "Anyway, how is he? Expected to survive, I presume?"

"That he is," Carson says. "And none the worse for wear, I might add, though he'll be on a bit of medical leave until the punctures heal up. You did well, Rodney."

Rodney scowls at him, because that's his default reaction to praise when he thinks it's patronizing. "I didn't do anything," he says. Then he pauses to consider and says, "Well, I did shoot the thing. A whole bunch of times. And I only missed twice."

"I noticed," Carson says. He waves his hand toward the other side of the infirmary, and Rodney can see the snake-bird-thing stretched out on a table, clamps holding it open and innards spilling out, tiny feathers glistening rainbow-black like an oil spill. "The creature's actually rather fascinating," Carson says. "Its saliva has an enzyme that creates a feeling of peaceful well-being in its prey, so that the animal -- or in this case, Colonel Sheppard -- doesn't mind being eaten."

"Yes, thank you, that's quite enough," Rodney says. "I should go eat, before you completely spoil my appetite."

Carson shrugs, but he's got a speculative look in his eyes like he's just discovered some anti-Rodney secret weapon. Rodney supposes it's alright, so long as Carson doesn't take to decorating his office in snake-innards just to keep Rodney from bothering him. "Right," Carson says, "you don't want to let that blood sugar drop. Colonel Sheppard should be awake in a few hours; if you want to stop by again, he might enjoy the company."

Rodney snorts and says, "Right," because even he realizes that people don't tend to enjoy his company.

"Oh," Carson says, just as Rodney's turning to leave. "I met that Colonel Carter you're always on about."

Rodney turns back. "You did, did you?" he says, and tries to sound not as interested and completely envious as he is.

Carson nods and puts his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, and since when did it become Let's All Torture Rodney Day? "Zelenka's been giving her a tour," he says. "Lovely girl. I can see why you're so fixated. Er, attracted." He corrects himself in a way that isn't correction, like he's trying to be politically correct in a very obvious way, just to screw with Rodney's mind.

But Rodney has no time to deal with Carson and his ridiculously-accented slings and arrows. He pivots away toward the doors, narrow-eyed, and says, " _Zelenka_ ," in exactly the tone of voice a guy's supposed to use when uttering a murder-related blood oath.

+++

Zelenka does not conveniently present himself to be killed, at least not between the infirmary and the mess hall, which thanks to transporter technology is only about three steps. The meal of the day is Mystery Casserole; it's bland and thoroughly uninspiring, and tastes like kidney beans, even though the primary ingredient seems to be some kind of meat which Rodney is _not_ going to ask about.

He sits down at a table on the far side, near the windows -- which thankfully do not change colors to let him know that they aren't interested in his company -- and pokes listlessly at his datapad with his finger while simultaneously poking listlessly at the food with his fork.

While he was on Planet Jungle Book, trying to keep Sheppard alive and sweating every drop of water out of his body, his staff was here in safe, air-conditioned Atlantis, attempting to destroy the city while he wasn't looking. There are three reports in his mailbox about some barely-averted catastrophic generator overload. (The last is a terse email from Zelenka, letting everyone know that the problem is fixed, that Doctor Sinet isn't allowed to touch the generators anymore, and that they'd all better hope that Doctor McKay is a good mood when he gets back. Rodney thinks that maybe he won't kill Zelenka, after all; he's occasionally useful to have around.)

The continuing feud between Doctors Hartley and Sewell -- which as far as Rodney can tell is somehow centered around _Battlestar Galactica_ and its relative merits as compared to _Doctor Who_ \-- manifested in Rodney's absence as a three-hour blackout in Hartley's lab and an uncontrollable growth of odiferous mold in Sewell's lab. Since both labs are shared with several other members of Rodney's science team, the initial reports are followed up by emailed complaints demanding action and threatening lynching. There's even a message in there from the guy in charge of facilities, requesting that all experiments with smelly plant life be conducted in isolated areas, with effected personnel undergoing fumigation when leaving the lab. Rodney responds to that crisis by sending an email to Elizabeth recommending that both Hartley and Sewell are either shipped back to Earth or dropped screaming into the ocean. He's hoping for the second one, but doesn't have any great expectations. He expected his team of brilliant minds to keep Atlantis running while he was away for a whopping seven hours, too, so clearly he needs to get used to disappointment.

He finishes up his written report on the day's mission, even though the tiny keyboard on his datapad is painfully slow to type with, and emails that off to Elizabeth too. Then he sits for awhile and pokes at the remainder of his meal, most of which he's already eaten without really noticing.

He thinks about raising Zelenka on the radio and saying something like, _Hey, Doctor Judas, I notice you absconded with my future wife. If you return her within the next ten minutes I promise I won't destroy you._ But Zelenka could've contacted him via headset anytime if Colonel Carter had wanted to see Rodney, and anyway, Rodney _is_ a genius, and he's perfectly aware that Colonel Carter isn't particularly interested, even if he likes to ignore that fact.

And that, he thinks, is just the cap on a very long, very tiring, very terrible day, and if he's going to keep pursuing Colonel Carter with his usual amount of completely uncharacteristic optimism, he's going to need rest first. While he's finishing his coffee, he sends an email to Zelenka -- a pair of long and overly-complicated equations which pretty much end in _McKay = Godzilla_ and _Zelenka = Tokyo_ , respectively -- and then he picks up his datapad and his tray, buses his dishes back to the kitchen, and makes the short journey to the infirmary once again.

Sheppard's awake this time, sitting up in bed, one leg uncovered like he's moonlighting as a peep show. He's frowning at the nurse who's carefully peeling back bandages from his leg, and he's saying, "Come on. The _Chargers_? You've got to be kidding me." He glances up when Rodney approaches and says, "Oh, hey Rodney."

"Feeling better, I see," Rodney says. "Please tell me you're not talking about SeaWorld anymore."

Sheppard frowns again. "No. Football." Then he kind of blinks for a second and says, "SeaWorld?"

Rodney waves his hand, as if batting the unwanted topic of conversation away -- though from the look on Sheppard's face, he's probably making completely wrong assumptions about how much of Rodney's life has been wasted playing ping-pong -- and leans over to examine the exposed wounds on Sheppard's leg. There's a neatly uniform row of twin punctures, sweeping up from Sheppard's calf, wrapping all the way around the leg to the inner thigh, where it's all topped off by two larger fang-marks.

"You look like you've been attacked by an octopus," Rodney says. "Which I guess would go with today's whole pirate theme."

"It doesn't really hurt," Sheppard says. "Plus, that'll be a really awesome scar."

Rodney snorts, rocks back and tucks his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, the girls will be all over you when you tell them you were attacked by an alien octopus."

"Snake," Sheppard corrects. "And I get plenty of action even without cool scars, thank you very much."

Rodney snorts and pulls up a chair, drops into it with all the grace of -- well, something not very graceful. He's had a long day and metaphors were never his strong point, anyway. He doesn't even know if metaphor is the right word, that's how much metaphors are not his area right now. "You're just lucky that thing didn't bite a little higher," he points out, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Sheppard's... well. Stuff.

"Thanks, Rodney," Sheppard says. "I really needed that thought to help me through my recovery."

"Oh, no problem," Rodney says. He might've been a little more sarcastic and a little less absent, but he's already hunched over the datapad in his lap, scrolling rapidly through directories and trying to remember where he left the file he wants.

"Whatcha got there?" Sheppard asks, leaning over though he can't really see anything. The nurse -- one of the two burly ones who look like twins and should've been bouncers -- very gently tells him to hold still, and there's an implied _or else_ underneath it.

"I thought you could do with some entertainment," Rodney says. He makes a little eureka noise and opens up the file he's looking for, thrusts the datapad into Sheppard's lap, and there's tinny, crappy sound already coming out of the speakers.

"Hey," Sheppard says, "is this new TV?"

"Courtesy of Doctor Hartley," Rodney says, "who in his unending quest to prove the superiority of _Battlestar Galactica_ has uploaded twenty-six episodes to the shared server. I'm going to see if I can get him to cough up a few more, before I have him punted into the ocean." He leans on the edge of Sheppard's bed, trying to get a look at the tiny screen, and points at the screen, which is sadly neither high-definition nor particularly large. "They made Starbuck a woman," he says, "and she's _blond_."

"Cool," Sheppard says absently, like he has no idea that Starbuck wasn't always a woman, much less any idea who Starbuck is. Then he blinks and looks up and says, "Oh, hey, speaking of blonds, I saw Colonel Carter down here earlier." He waggles one eyebrow, and it's both lecherous and creepy; it's also the kind of look that makes hot alien women swoon, which is just another mystery and injustice of the Pegasus Galaxy.

Rodney straightens, tugs his jacket down Picard-style, tilts his chin up and says, "Yes, well, she is the perfect woman and I would ask you not to sully her reputation by saying those kinds of things with your eyebrows."

Sheppard barks out a startled little laugh, like he's forgotten that Rodney can be funny -- Rodney thinks he's completely funny and can't figure out why this seems to repeatedly shock everyone -- and Sheppard's shaking his head when he turns back to the datapad, where Apollo is, freakishly enough, mirroring Sheppard's single-eyebrow move with one of his own. Nurse Linebacker, whatever his name is, finishes with the last of Sheppard's elaborate bandages, and mercifully twitches the blanket back over Sheppard's skinny little leg as he leaves them to their shared geekitude.

"Thanks, Rodney," Sheppard says, while he's using one hand to tuck the blanket back in around his leg. "This looks cool. And I've seen all the DVDs in Atlantis like eight thousand times, so desperation might factor into my gratitude, too."

"Mmm, yes," Rodney says, in his musing-aloud voice. "Also, the only people who thought to bring DVDs as personal items were the sort of people who absolutely couldn't live without their copy of _West Side Story_ ; and, might I add, that was a Marine. Just what sort of military personnel did you bring on this mission, anyway?"

Sheppard waves his hand -- hah, Rodney thinks, Sheppard was probably a ping-pong _champ_ with that backhand -- and says, "No talking in the theater, Rodney."

So Rodney settles in instead, hitching himself up onto the edge of Sheppard's bed, and they watch the little screen with their heads bent together. One of their heroes is in shackles and in enemy hands -- literally, in a kind of sexy way -- when somebody says, "Ah, Rodney. Here you are."

Rodney says, "Yes, here I am; you must have an excellent grasp of temporal mechanics to be making an astounding observation like that," and he doesn't look away from the screen.

"I don't know what it is with you and blonds," Sheppard says, ignoring the whole exchange, and he pokes Rodney in the ribs with one finger, then uses the same finger to point at the datapad screen. "Haven't you noticed all the blond chicks on this show are the ones killing everybody?"

"It's part of the appeal," Rodney says, smug in his own superior taste.

Then his brain pauses, backs up a few steps so he can re-parse some data, and he realizes that the person who's interrupted their viewing has an accent and a stupid haircut. He thinks, Ah, _Tokyo_ , and he's preparing to impart utter devastation when he realizes that Zelenka isn't alone.

He's been chasing after the idea of Sam Carter all day with such a degree of wistful longing that he isn't entirely sure that she's here now, but she seems real enough, standing there with her hands in the pockets of her SGC BDUs, eyebrows raised. Rodney realizes that if he'd acknowledged Zelenka with a bit more attention, he might have avoided this embarrassing moment in which he nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get on his feet, but he decides that playing on through his mistakes is the way to go, and he says, "Ah, Colonel Carter. How lovely to see you again," as if she hasn't just overheard him talking about the relative merits of women with his commanding officer.

"Hi," Sheppard says, playing the same card but just infinitely cooler than Rodney thinks he'll ever be capable of himself. Sheppard leans around Rodney and extends a hand. "John Sheppard. You must be Colonel Carter. We've all heard a lot about you."

Carter says, "Yeah, I'll bet," and gives Rodney a dirty look even while she's shaking Sheppard's hand, which is just so uncalled-for. "Call me Sam."

Sheppard smiles his best lady-killing smile and says, "Call me John, in that case."

"Yes, well," Rodney says, because he can't think of anything else to say, but he's really got to interrupt Sheppard here before he and Sam start necking right here in the infirmary, thereby breaking Rodney's heart into tiny, tiny little pieces. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and he's got a little Ancient data crystal in there, but unfortunately he can't just plug it into his brains, and it probably doesn't come pre-programmed with things to say to women, anyway, so that's no help. He finally says, "Zelenka here's been giving you a tour of the city, I presume," and he gives Zelenka a look that promises retribution when least expected.

"Yes," Zelenka says, as if he's sensing his chance to get out of this alive. "I was about to show Colonel Carter to the chair room, but we were passing and here you were, and I must get back to work now." He turns to Sam and shakes her hand, vigorously and quickly, and says, "It has been a pleasure, Colonel, and now I leave you in Rodney's capable hands," and then he beats a hasty retreat, practically running for the doors.

Sam watches him go, frowning, and then turns back to Sheppard -- as if Rodney's not even in the _room_ , he's _invisible_ to her and he's really never had any idea how he's supposed to get girls to notice him, but this is ridiculous -- and says, "Huh. Wonder what that's all about."

"Oh," Sheppard says, with a little grin that starts turning evil right around the time Rodney figures out that he's doomed. "Rodney's been talking about you non-stop for the last eighteen days. He left explicit instructions for his staff that--"

"Yes, thank you," Rodney says. "That's quite enough. Really. Don't think I don't know how to make sure your showers are ice-cold for all of eternity," and he maybe shouldn't have said that last part in front of Sam, but she's grinning in an amused way so he can't have fumbled it completely.

"Aw, Rodney," Sheppard says, kind of fondly. "If only we could teach you to use your powers for good, rather than evil."

Rodney points at the datapad and kind of twitches his finger for good measure, and says, "Weren't you busy watching something? You should get back to that." And before she has a chance to escape, he turns to Sam and says, "I'd be delighted to show you the chair room; right this way," and he somehow steers her out of the infirmary and into the corridor.

Of course, once he's alone with her he has no idea what to say or do, so he defaults to his preset, which is basically to talk about every inane object they pass as if it's the most fascinating thing on the planet. He goes into exhaustive detail about how Ancient trash disposal functions, and how the bubbling conduits in the corridors are filled with seawater being routed for desalinization, and how the Ancient lettering at each corridor junction indicates which part of the city they're in, like bulkhead markings on an aircraft carrier. By the time they get to the chair room he's just about ready to throw himself off a balcony just to end the pain, but he figures he shouldn't do that unless Hartley and Sewell are around, because if he's going to hurtle to his doom he might as well kill two birds with one stone and drag those idiots down with him.

"So," says Rodney's runaway mouth, while he stands helpless and despairing under the weight of its power. "This is the chair room, which... actually I don't know why Zelenka was bringing you here; I mean, it's really cool-looking and everything, but we've got the chair sort of partially dismantled right now. And it's pretty much the same as the chair in the Antarctic, and you've already seen that one, so I'm not sure how interesting this could possibly be to you any--"

Sam says, "Oh my God, McKay. Stop. Just stop now," and she's holding up her hand and looking at him with something like horror on her face.

Apparently her command was all his mouth needed, because it snaps shut it is finally silent. Rodney resents that because he's been commanding his mouth to shut up for awhile now but it hasn't been listening to him at all.

Sam winces into his sudden silence and says, "Sorry, I didn't mean that to be quite so-- But take a breath, seriously. I'm not sure I could explain to your CMO that you died of oxygen deprivation because you couldn't stop talking."

"Actually, I don't think he'd be surprised by that," Rodney says, thoughtfully, and is thankful when his tongue doesn't run away with him again.

Sam is, miraculously, smiling like she's almost enjoying herself, like she finds him funny whether he intends to be or not, like she can almost bring herself to enjoy his company. She says, "So, you were excited about me coming to visit, huh?"

Rodney says, "Yes. Yes I was," and tips his chin up, thinking that he's definitely man enough to admit it. And then he adds, "At least, I was until you were standing right there and I realized that I'd have to actually talk to you, right around the time that my not-inconsiderable intellect completely abandoned me."

Sam laughs, shakes her head, and looks down at the chair; she touches the arm with her fingertips, but the chair doesn't react. Somebody might have unplugged it, or she might not have the gene. Rodney wonders if she wants it, if he can offer it to her like flowers, if gene therapy is an appropriate gift for a second date.

"Relax, McKay," she says. "You don't need to try to impress me. I already know what a jerk you are, and you're never going to score, so you can just feel free to be yourself."

Rodney thinks it through -- though he avoids thinking about the scoring part, because that's just depressing -- and finally says, "That's actually a pretty sound theory, but I'm taking issue with the second part."

"I take it back," Sam says. "You can feel free to be a much less annoying version of yourself."

"Oh, ha ha," Rodney says, but he's finally unknotting around the shoulders and he's not feeling quite so much like his brains are going to explode from the tension. "Zelenka already showed you every cleared area of the city, didn't he?"

Sam tilts her head a little, inquisitive and just far too cute, and says, "Yeah, pretty much."

"So you're basically just humoring me right now, is that it?"

Sam says, "Basically," and nods, smiling brightly. She's got perfect little white teeth and kissable lips; she's in BDUs and she doesn't even seem to be wearing any makeup and she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Oh," Rodney says, and he can't even be disappointed, not under the force of that grin. "Well. Was there anything else you'd like to see?" My quarters, he thinks desperately, and he tries to beam it at her like he's got some kind of superpower involving thought-rays. My quarters, my quarters, my quarters.

"Doctor Weir was telling me there's a balcony you can see whales from," Sam says, and it's so unexpected that Rodney sputters for a moment before he can come up with a response, because what kind of astrophysicist travels to an alien city in another galaxy and wants to see _whales_?

Because his brain and his mouth have a very short and occasionally short-circuiting connection, Rodney says, "What kind of astrophysicist travels to an alien city in another galaxy and wants to see _whales_?"

Sam sighs at him and pokes him in the chest with one finger, a little rim of engine grease under the nail and that's so hot that Rodney can hardly breathe. "I've seen all the technical stuff, McKay, and to be honest, I know more about it than I ever wanted to, considering how you send me lengthy emails in every data transmission detailing the brilliance of your latest discoveries. And you're gonna begrudge me a little whale-watching?"

"Oh," Rodney says. "Well, there's one whale. Singular. Lassie. Good friend of mine." Sam blinks at him and looks like she's trying not to make any sudden movements, so Rodney gestures toward the door and says, "This way."

The southern pier is close, thanks to a conveniently placed transporter, and the walk is a mercifully short one that doesn't give Rodney's mouth time to get going again. The balcony that the whale likes -- the one that used to afford a nice view of huge schools of huge fish, before Lassie came along and started chowing down -- is close to the water, so the ocean's a bare ten feet down. The sun is just sinking behind the bulk of the pier and the ocean is all surface reflection, bright orange and sharp white, and the whale does not appear on command.

Rodney's really got to put some work into this whole thought-rays thing, because it just isn't happening today. "He's not always around," Rodney explains to Sam, while she leans against the railing and peers down into the water. "I mean, he's a whale. Places to go, things to do. Fish to eat."

Sam shrugs and says, "The view's nice. Anyway, I didn't really want to talk to you about whales."

"You didn't?" Rodney says, and hopes against hope that she might've wanted to talk to him about kissing, maybe with demonstrations.

"No," Sam says. She leans her elbows on the rail and looks mostly at the ocean, but also at Rodney, kind of from the corners of her eyes. "I got that email you sent a few weeks ago, the um... well. You know the one."

Rodney leans against the rail too, and he flushes -- just the ocean wind, if anyone asks, because Rodney McKay does not blush -- and he wonders if the planet could produce a specifically targeted tidal wave right here so the ocean could swallow him up. "Oh," he says. "That email." He's been trying to block it out of his memory, but in spite of himself he still remembers writing it, pouring out feelings and confessions and absolute post-hypothermia gibberish that he would never in a million years have said to her, if he'd been in his right mind.

"Yeah," Sam says. "And I just wanted to... well, you seem fine. But I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Rodney grimaces and looks away, wonders if Lassie might be obliging enough to suddenly appear and launch into a series of dazzling whale-type maneuvers, so they could table this whole conversation until approximately never. "Fine," he says, and he wants to leave it there, wants so badly for that to be the only word that comes out of his mouth, so just once he can be stoic and cool and his whole life doesn't have to boil down to this, this moment in which he's too honest and more human than he wants to be.

"I almost died," he says. "I almost died and I was at the bottom of the ocean and the person I wanted there with me the most was you."

Sam frowns at him, but she doesn't turn away; she edges closer, puts her hand flat on his bowed back, between the shoulder blades, and says, "You wanted me to share your certain doom? That's sweet, McKay."

He laughs, the kind of barked half-sob that he hates more than any other sound he's capable of making, because it means that he's on the cusp of crying, and girls don't tend to be into that, when you have a nervous breakdown right in front of them and you haven't even been on a real date yet. "Well," he says, "it was really cold. And I was concussed. So if I wasn't thinking straight then--"

Sam shakes her head again, with this rueful little grin like Rodney's a slow learner -- and he so is _not_ \-- and she shuts him up this time by leaning in close, right into his space. There's a faint smoke smell clinging to her BDU jacket -- Zelenka must've taken her down to Lab 6, where they manage to catch something on fire every other day -- and her hair smells like shampoo and engine coolant. He's so busy thinking about how insanely attractive that is that he hardly reacts when she kisses his cheek. Then she reconsiders, smiles against his cheekbone, presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, and then kisses him for real, a dry press of lips against lips, and he has the presence of mind to turn his head a little, turning into her, an almost-return of the gesture before she's leaning back and gone again.

"Sam," Rodney says, and he doesn't mean to sound quite that amazed or breathless or broken or whatever he is, but it happens anyway. He doesn't know what else he wanted to say, though, so he just stands there with one hand gripped tight around the railing, staring and blinking with her name clinging to his lips like that kiss is.

"Rodney," Sam replies. The curl in her lips is teasing, devilish, and it doesn't make any promises, not quite. "Zelenka never did show me the important things, like where the dining hall is. How 'bout you buy me dinner?"

Rodney blinks again and says, "Um. Okay," and out there in the shining sea -- which is much more beautiful and less panic-inducing from this vantage point -- Lassie breaches belly-up and glittering, offering just a little glimpse of what's there beneath the surface.

\- the end -


End file.
